


24 Days of Sherlock

by SophB_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1895, 221B Ficlet, Advent, Candy Canes, Christmas, Christmas at 221B Baker Street, Cute Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Parentlock, Victorian Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27823462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophB_Holmes/pseuds/SophB_Holmes
Summary: 24 221Bs for Kat's Sherlock Advent challenge
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 171
Kudos: 69
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020, Sherlock Xmas 2020





	1. December 1st - Eggnog

**December 1st - Eggnog**

"What. Is. This?" I looked at the carton he was holding, standing in the fridge door. 

"Well, use your deductive powers."

"It says it contains egg. Lots of sugar. Cream. Why would you buy an omelette in a carton? Why would you put sugar in an omelette?"

"It's a drink."

"A drink? With eggs in it?" He pulled a face and I couldn't help but laugh.

"Yeah. It's a bit old fashioned now. Reminds me of my gran, though. Can't have Christmas without eggnog." He carried on pulling a face and replaced it onto the shelf of the fridge door. "It's not like it's the worst thing that's ever been in there." He thought and nodded before smiling. "And no, that's not a challenge." The grin slid away and he shut the door with a bang before storming off. 

\--

_Christmas Eve_

I had the glass ready, and the rum. Time to enjoy a class of comfort just as my Gran used to serve. I added the rum to the glass first, just a single shot and went to the fridge to get the carton. It was empty! 

"Sherlock?" 

"Hmm?" 

"Know anything about this?" He looked up as I shook the empty carton. 

"Research, John. Google said it was nice in coffee. They were right. It's very nice."

"Sherlock, you utter bastard!"


	2. Dec 2nd - Blankets

**December 2nd - Blankets**

John was tired of always being cold in 221b. It was an old house and as everyone who has ever lived in one will know, they're always bloody freezing in winter. High ceilings, draughty windows and doors. No matter how much heat you put in, it inevitably ended up escaping through the cracks. Thermodynamics, he recalled Sherlock remarking one particularly chilly evening. 

So John decided that he was going to treat himself to a nice, warm blanket. He laid it on the back of the sofa and then after dinner, he sat down and pulled it around, snug and cosy within its folds. A few moments later, Sherlock sat beside him, as they did to watch the news. Sherlock started off at his usual distance. Then, with a sideways glance at John snug in the blanket, moved a little closer. Within five minutes, he and Sherlock were touching all down one side. 

"Cold?"

A muttered grumble was his only reply. So, John opened the blanket and wrapped one end around Sherlock's shoulders. It was big enough for both as long as it only went around their backs. John shivered so Sherlock snuggled closer. 

Ten minutes later, the blanket was wrapped around both of them as they hugged together in the middle. Sherlock's head on John's shoulder, John's arm around his back.


	3. Dec 3rd - Snowpeople

The snow had fallen deep and perfect overnight. It lay in thick drifts against the cottage door and walls lending a magical appearance to the slumbering garden. The beehives stood at the end of the path with white roofs and as Sherlock looked out of the window, he smiled. 

  
"We never got snow in London." It wasn't quite true. It snowed but nothing like this. Too warm and densely populated.

  
"We should make snowmen." John walked up behind him, wrapping his arms around the taller man's waist, resting his chin on his shoulder. Sherlock smiled and covered John's hands with his own. 

  
A patter of footsteps followed by clicking dog claws and mumbled warnings of 'careful!' clattered down the stairs as their granddaughter, Catherine, and Rosie arrived to greet the morning along with Graham, the dog. 

  
"Grandda!" John let go of Sherlock and leaned down to hoist Catherine onto his hip. "It's white!"

  
"Yup. It snowed overnight." Catherine was three and hadn't seen much snow, living in London with her mother and father.

  
"Would you like to go out and build a snow family, Kitty?" Sherlock reached out his arms and the little girl leapt from one man to the other with a squeal. 

  
"I remember building snow animals in Regent's park." Sherlock smiled at Rosie's memory. 

  
"You made a bee."


	4. Dec 4th - Lights

She crept up the stairs, taking care to miss the creaking ones, a box held firmly in both hands. She reached the landing and listened at the door. Nothing. No sound of the occupants. She had heard them leave but it was always better to make sure with those two. Especially when on a mission as delicate as this one. She turned the handle slowly, knowing full well that it was never locked, and entered on tiptoes, still making sure she was alone. She scouted around the kitchen, checked the main bedroom. No one was there. Good. 

Placing the box on the kitchen table, she started to extract the contents, making sure not to tangle anything and let any of the objects fall on the floor. She quickly and efficiently moved around the living area, sidestepping books and the violin. She swept along the mantelpiece, around the skull and the dagger. Across to the skull picture.

When finished, she stood in the doorway and admired her work. With a nod, she escaped the way she had entered.

\--

Sherlock and John clattered up the seventeen steps to the flat and flung open the door. Their chatter stopped upon entering the room as both men stood agape at the sight. Tinsel and fairy lights were everywhere. 

"Mrs Hudson?"

She replied, "Merry Christmas, boys."


	5. Dec 5th - Grinch

John settled himself on the sofa, Rosie nestled in beside him. He pulled the thick blanket he'd bought years ago around them both and grabbed the bowl of popcorn off the coffee table. The fairy lights twinkled, reflecting off the baubles adorning the Christmas tree. He pressed the button on the remote and snuggled in closer to his daughter and waited for the film to start. 

"Sher?" She had never quite mastered his full name and as time went on, it stopped mattering. 

"Yes, Bee?" He was sat at the kitchen table, using his microscope to analyse the glitters from the baubles. 

"It's The Grinch." She said seriously as if that was all the question and explanation that was required. 

"Ah, a film. Goodie." Sarcastic reply.

"Yeah, Sherlock. Film night. Coming?" John smiled over at grumpy git sat in the kitchen. "You'll like this one. He reminds me of you." The look from Sherlock made John laugh and Rosie giggled along too. 

The film got started. 

"He even sounds like you." Rosie giggled again. 

Gradually, Sherlock gravitated to the living room, then the end of the sofa. Before long, Rosie was huddled between them, the blanket around all three. 

When the film finished, Rosie was asleep in Sherlock's lap. 

He smiled at John, stood and picked Rosie up. "Bedtime, Little Bee." 


	6. Dec 6th - Fire

The fire crackled in the grate, a warm, orange glow cast over the room. It was smaller than Baker Street. Cosy, with wooden floors covered in rugs, a lower ceiling with exposed wooden beams, rough plaster on the walls and thick curtains helping to keep the heat in. The wind whistled outside, snow blowing against the windows with the promise of a beautiful, white, crisp covering in the morning.

They had retired here in the spring, Sherlock having decided after their final case that enough was enough. His knee had given out during a chase across London and three painful surgeries later, he had dragged John to Sussex where he had found a new home for them. They sat, huddled together, side by side as always, on the sofa in front of the fireplace. The real Christmas tree stood in the corner, filling the room with the scent of fresh pine. Graham, their rescue dog, lay at their feet, snoring away gently.

"If I had told you that this would be how we would end up, would you have believed me?"

"What? Married, with a dog, in a cottage in Sussex. A grown-up daughter and now a granddaughter? Depends."

"On what?"

"Whether you'd told me before or after 'Afghanistan or Iraq'." John smiled and leaned over to kiss his beloved.


	7. Dec 7th - Candy Canes

John had known about Sherlock's sweet tooth since the day they had met. Two sugars in coffee. Gingernuts. Mince pies. Sometimes it was the only way to get food into the detective when on a case. Place a plate of something sweet and carby in front of him and it would be gone without the younger man realising he was being played. So John shouldn't have been surprised when the candy canes started disappearing off the tree.

Sherlock had complained when John had first suggested them. Why would you hang edible things on a tree?! But twelve canes became eleven, then ten. There was only one person in the house that could be responsible and he was six foot tall with curly hair.

John kept an eye out for the thief, trying to catch the moment when the lanky git would strike and ten would become nine. It was when six was becoming five that he finally caught him. And oh! He would never get over the sight.

Sherlock was sitting crossed legged beside the tree, the plastic wrapper carelessly discarded and the candy cane, well, that was the thing. The way it moved in and out of those lips, the suggestive sucking. John groaned as he watched, instantly aroused. Sherlock's mischievous gaze met his.

"Finally! Shall we go to bed?"


	8. Dec 8th - Jumper

The flat felt cold and empty. Nothing like it used to be. Before. When the space had been full of life and sound of a crackling fire and the smell of takeaway and crap TV. 

As hard as he had found it at the time, he missed the laughter and cheerfulness of a Christmas spent with friends. Of Christmas lights and carols on the violin and gifts. Now, there was no one. 

He’d done it to save their lives. He’d given his own to make it so that theirs would continue. But he was the only one sitting on his own. In a chair once used by his best friend. The one person he could be himself around. Could let down the facade that was exhausting to maintain. Not anymore. 

He had to hide so much these days, it was killing him, slowly. The aching loneliness. The feeling that Moriaty had won after all. Had indeed burned the heart out of him. Mycroft was right. Sentiment was a chemical defect and he was definitely on the losing side. 

So there he sat. Alone. In a cold, dark room. On Christmas Eve. Clutching one of John’s old jumpers to his face. Taking deep breaths, imagining the lingering scent of his friend. Wishing more than anything that he could go back. 

To before.


	9. Dec 9th - Wrapping

"You've been stealing the candy canes as a weird form of seduction?" John stared at Sherlock, still seated on the floor, still suggestively sucking the sweet. He pulled the cane from his lips and ran his tongue up the full length, his gaze fixed on John's as he did so. 

"Yes, John. Obvious, really." He was wearing only his sheet, an outfit John had seen him wear often, most notably at Buckingham Palace. The ashtray was still one of his most prized possessions. John watched as Sherlock stood, allowing the sheet to drape but not fall, covering him modestly, if that was at all possible in this situation. 

"What now?" His mouth felt dry with nerves. He was finally accepting the fact that yes, he really was very attracted to his flatmate. 

"I'm your gift. You get to unwrap me." _Holy fuck!_ John thought. His heart hammered in his chest as he watched the sheet-clad god stalk towards him. "You do want to, don't you, John? Admit it." Sherlock stood so close that John could feel the heat radiating through the fine cotton. All he could do was nod. Yes. He did. Very much so. 

The taller man smiled a devilishly seductive grin and turned towards his bedroom, the sheet trailing along in his wake. John stirred himself to follow behind. 


	10. Dec 10th - Surprise

Sherlock hated feeling like this. Every little movement made the wound in his chest pull sending waves of pain around his body. Nothing the hospital had given him touched the agony. Just another negative to being a recovering drug addict he supposed. He tried to hide the pain as much as he could from John. He wanted to make it as easy as possible for him to leave and go back to Mary, to safety. Who on Earth knew what she would do to them both if John left her for good. No. This was for the best even though when he thought about it, the ache in his chest had little to do with the bullet. 

It was all arranged. The two of them would travel to Sherlock's parent's for Christmas Day. Mycroft would send a car for them and transport Mary there as well. Everything was set. He was as recovered as could be expected having suffered catastrophic organ failure due to hypovolemic shock. Things would never be the same again but he would pretend otherwise. For John. 

"Bring your gun, John."

"My gun? Why? We're going to your parent's!"

"It's a surprise." Sherlock smiled at his best friend. The man he loved.

Everything always had been and always would be for John. Right until his final breath.


	11. Dec 11th - Cold Feet

The man in the three-piece suit picked his way through the bodies of sleeping junkies laying sprawled across the floor. He wasn't interested in any of them beyond a brief flicker of sympathy for any family they may have. It was Christmas Eve and even though he had eschewed sentiment a long time ago, even he felt sorry for the people who would be missing these unfortunate souls at this time of year. 

He spotted the familiar curly hair of his young brother, cascading off the edge of the filthy mattress the boy was half falling off. Crouching down, he felt the long pale neck for a pulse and released a sob of relief when he felt it strong albeit rapid under the paper-thin skin. 

"Let's get you home, brother mine." He gently scooped the gaunt and much too thin boy into his arms and carried him back out into the fresh air. 

"Myc?" Slurred words. Half-open eyes. Pupils as small as pinpricks, invisible in the nighttime gloom. 

"Yes, Sherlock. It's me."

"M' feet are cold." The eyes closed again, his head slumping heavily against his older brother's shoulder. Mycroft tightened his hold. 

"There's a blanket in the car. I'll soon get you warmed up." He would look after Sherlock. He had made a vow; to always protect his baby brother.


	12. Dec 12th - Virus

They sat in front of the blazing fire, the advent candle lit and flickering on the mantelpiece. Holmes smoked his pipe, Watson a cigarette. Both held glasses of brandy and were simply enjoying quiet companionship. The year was 1895.

"I say, Holmes. Have you read that chap Wells' story? The Time Machine?"

"A novel? Come, Watson! You know I don't lower myself to that level." Holmes sipped his brandy, a small smile on his face. Watson caught onto the ruse quickly and smiled in return.

"Have you ever wondered what the future might hold for society?"

"I am far too preoccupied with the present." Another draw on his pipe, exhaling the smoke leisurely. "What are your thoughts?"

"Well, I did have a dream, last night. It was over one hundred years hence and there was a disease that was attacking the entire planet!"

"How bizarre! Pray, elaborate."

"Everyone had to remain inside and wear masks. It was most strange. I suppose I had been reading Ivanovsky's dissertation."

"Ah yes, the virus. Fascinating. What else was in your vision of the future?"

Watson blushed and smiled. Glancing at the door to see it was locked, he put down his glass and cigarette before moving to straddle Holmes' lap, kissing him softly.

"This no longer gets you sent to a gaol in Berkshire."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A surprising amount of research went into this for only 221 words. 
> 
> \- HG Wells - The Time Machine was published in 1895  
> \- Ivanovsky was a Russian scientist who found that Tobacco Mosaic Virus was a disease caused by something smaller than bacteria in 1892. At this time, the term virus was used to describe an agent of virulent disease and was more down to the method of transmission than by taxonomic classification. It is, in fact, the first pathogen to be classified as a virus but wouldn't gain that classification until the 1930s.  
> \- The Berkshire prison refers to Reading Gaol where Oscar Wilde was sent to serve his sentence of two years hard labour for gross indecency in 1895.


	13. Dec 13th - London Snow

Rosie Watson was four years and eleven months old when London was hit by the worse snowstorm since the Beast from the East in 2018. It started on the Monday before Christmas and overnight, five inches fell in parts of the city. School had closed the previous Friday so it was all there for her to enjoy. She didn't really remember the last snow, being very little at the time. But this, this was different.

"Da! Sherlock!" She ran down the stairs from John's old room, along the corridor and straight into her fathers' bedroom. Jumping on the bed between the two men, she started telling them all about the snow heedless as to whether they were actually awake or not.

"Watson!" Sherlock's voice was groggy from having been rudely awoken.

"Yes?" "If you can find and tell me three interesting facts about snow, we'll go out and play."

She squealed with delight, leapt off the bed, ran to the iPad and started her research. Within moments, she returned, the two men now awake and sitting up, ready for their daughter to report her findings.

At the end, John turned to his husband. "She's becoming more your daughter by the day." With a devilish grin, he pulled the little girl into a hug and said. "Every snow often, you're both brilliant." 


	14. Dec 14th - Family

He was not a man known for sentiment of any kind and yet when it came to his family, he would do anything to keep them all safe and content. He had tried to be a good brother, a good son. He had visited his parents and looked after all their needs. Taken them to the theatre when they were in town and sat through too many horrific musicals all for them.

He had tried so hard when it came to his younger brother. Had cared for him when life was too much and the younger man had sought an escape; sometimes temporary, sometimes with a desire for permanence. He had been by his side throughout it all, wiping the sweat and vomit away from his face and holding his hand when the withdrawal made him scream with pain.

To be sat here now, in his parent's home, at Christmastime, he could feel the sentiment he so carefully kept hidden sneak out. Mummy and Daddy were flirting and smiling as always, the embodiment of happy marriage. Sherlock was sitting with Rosie Watson on his knee, laughter lines deepening with age and use. His now husband, John, laughing along at the fun and games.

Yes. He had done well. Now, looking at Greg next to him, it was time for a break. 


	15. Dec 15th - Mistletoe

"I don't get it, John," Sherlock said as they entered the flat following a five-day-long case. "Why hang mistletoe above the victims?"

John turned to his flatmate and stared at him, puzzled.

"Well, let's see. The victims were dressed in Christmas jumpers, wore a bow and were next to a Christmas tree. You don't need to be a genius to see the obvious connection there. Tea?"

"Christmas, obviously. But mistletoe? I don't understand."

"You've deleted the link between mistletoe and Christmas?" John asked in amazement. "And I thought deleting the solar system was bad."

"There's a link?" Sherlock grabbed his phone and quickly searched for the information, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline at the answer.

They sipped their tea as John started typing up the blog post and Sherlock corrected him on the details.

* * *

The following weekend, John entered the flat to find it empty. It was the last few days before Christmas and he'd finished the shopping for everyone. He was putting the gifts under the tree when Sherlock returned, a smile on his face.

"Ah, John. Wonderful." The detective strode over to stand in front of John before looking up. There, hanging off the cow skull, was mistletoe.

"Care to demonstrate how this works?" John smiled, reached up and did just that until they were both breathless. 


	16. Dec 16th - Antlers

"But I wish you'd worn the antlers." Mrs Hudson gushed at the detective as he put down the violin. She didn't see the blush as he looked at John, remembering what she'd have seen him doing whilst wearing the antlers had she walked in ten minutes earlier.

"Some things, Mrs Hudson, are best left to the imagination."

"Not much imagination needed really, Sherlock." She muttered with a sly grin and walked away as he flushed an even deeper red before moving to stand at the window, watching the snow drifting past. He smelt John's aftershave before he felt the heat of the man himself, moving to stand beside him.

"You did look quite lovely in those antlers." Sherlock smiled at John's reflection.

"And you looked rather good in the hat." John grinned back.

Sherlock turned to look at the man beside, his gaze hungry. Since the night in the sheet with the candy canes, experimentation with other seasonal decorations had become a little game. Santa showing Rudolph how to behave had thankfully just finished when their 'not-housekeeper' arrived with another tray of mince pies.

"I'm going to enjoy unwrapping you from that hideous jumper later," Sherlock said flirtatiously; a whole side to the detective John had been surprised to discover.

They turned to see everyone staring at them.

"Secret's out, boys."


	17. Dec 17th - Presents

"What do you mean?" Sherlock looked at his landlady with a rare expression of confusion. 

"Sherlock!" She laughed as she carried on dusting the mantelpiece taking extra care with the skull. "What have you bought John?" He continued to look at her. "For Christmas?" Nothing changed. "You have bought a gift for John, haven't you?" She stopped to stare at him in bewilderment. 

He stared at her blinking, rapidly. The deductions he was making from the expression on her face, her intonation in the questions, her entire body language. He had evidently done something a bit not good. 

"When it Christmas day?" He asked quietly. 

"Well, today's the 24th." It hadn't yet answered his question. "Oh Sherlock! You've deleted Christmas! Again!" He swatted his arm with the duster. "Tomorrow, you silly man." He dashed towards the door, grabbed his wallet, coat and keys. "Good luck!" She called after him as he bolted down the stairs. 

\--

John sat with the beautifully wrapped gift on his lap. He was amazed Sherlock had even remembered and so was hesitant to open it lest it be something random from a left-over experiment. He carefully opened the package, Sherlock watching him carefully from his chair. 

Inside was an expensive leather notebook and a silver pen. It was inscribed:

> JW  
> I'd be lost without my blogger  
> SH


	18. Dec 18th - Tree

Rosie was almost six now. Her first Christmas had been fraught with tension and unhappiness; passed from one adult to another. It was a good job she would never remember it. That, however, didn't stop John from recalling it with a sadness that overwhelmed him every, single year.

For her second Christmas, he went all out with the decorations and presents. He knew she wouldn't remember this one either but he took enough photographs to help prove he had learned his lesson. She would have fun celebrations from now on.

Her third Christmas was her first at Baker Street. They'd moved back home, finally, after Sherlock broke his leg falling off a storage unit and into a skip. So John went to help him and simply stayed. Rosie was happy, so was he and Sherlock was beside himself with joy. It was he who went all out for Christmas that year.

This year would be different. This year there was a small box hidden in and among the tree branches as well as an envelope hiding under the presents. This was the year where John would ask Sherlock to marry him and Rosie would ask him to be her papa.

He stood next to his daughter, looking at the sparkling Christmas Tree. Sherlock joined them, his arms sliding around them both.


	19. Dec 19th - Church

Sherlock sat in the pew furthest away from the service at the altar. He hid in darkness, head covered with an itchy, woollen hat and a hood pulled as far down over his brow as he could. His scarf was wrapped around his nose and mouth leaving only his eyes visible. They were brown; contact lenses to cover the distinguishing freckle in his right eye. He was aiming to be invisible and had succeeded in doing so for over a year now.

The loneliness was wearing him down. It was something he had not considered when embarking upon this mission. That to be alone for so long after having had the best two years of his life with a friend. Well, it was becoming unbearable. It was almost Christmas. Two years ago, he had been playing carols at 221b. John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly... all there and he was so far from being alone.

This year he was in some God-forsaken wilderness. It was cold, it was wet and it was dark all the time. Such a contrast to that evening. It made his heart ache. The warm lights of the church, the sound of the singing, had drawn him inside like a siren on the rocks. Except this was safe harbour; for a few moments at least.

He wept bitterly. 


	20. Dec 20th - Turkey

"Daddy?"

"Yes, love."

"Why do we eat turkey at Christmas?" John looked at his daughter who was busy with the new Christmas colouring book Mrs Hudson had bought for her. She was sitting on Sherlock's lap as he typed on his laptop, the pair of them sharing the desk as had become their norm. Sherlock looked up at John as did Rosie, the pair of them waiting for an answer.

"Erm, well, I think Dickens had a lot to answer for. Didn't he buy one for Bob Cratchitt?"

"He was Kermit the Frog. He was married to Miss Piggy." John chuckled at Sherlock's expression after this announcement.

"Yes, love, that's right." She nodded thoughtfully.

"Why not another animal? Why turkey?" 

"I dunno, little one. Maybe Sherlock knows." She turned at once to face the man who was holding her. He shot John a look, who simply smirked back in return, and looked thoughtful for a moment.

"What do we do when we have a question we don't know the answer to?"

"Research!" She squealed with delight, the colouring book forgotten.

"That's right. So, let's have a look."

They both turned to the laptop and began searching in earnest. Facts were thrown out, laughter shared, more questions asked. Who'd have thought such a lovely afternoon could be inspired by a cooked bird?


	21. Dec 21st - Advent

Sherlock pondered the little box that sat on the table beside his chair. The tag said it was for him and to open it right away but still, it was not a date he had ever associated with receiving a gift before. Inside was a jar of honey from a small apiary in Sussex. Smiling in delight. he went to make toast.

The following Sunday, another little box sat in the same spot. Again, the tag said to open. This time were four stuffed dates, covered in chocolate and made to look like hedgehogs. Grinning, he smiled and put them to one side. He would share them with John, Rosie and Mrs Hudson later.

The third Sunday, and Sherlock was no longer surprised to see a box waiting for him. A new pocket magnifier, to replace the one he had lost last week, lay among rose petals and a small drawing of a bee by Rosie. He added the magnifier to his tool roll and tucked the bee into his wallet. He'd carry out an experiment on the petals with his Goddaughter later on.

When John went to put the fourth box down, he found there was already one there. Opening it up, he found a drawing of his favourite photo: John holding Rosie, Sherlock's arm around them both, smiling brightly.


	22. Dec 22nd - Cards

Over the years, Mummy Holmes had kept the Christmas cards that had meant the most to her. She all the ones that her boys had made at primary school; garish colours and improving handwriting as they progressed. She had kept all the ones from Mycroft; the official, British Government issue but at least it was always signed by him. Well, she assumed so, anyway.

But it was the ones from her youngest that she held closest to her heart. They were few and far between. Hardly any in the box were his but the ones that were she treasured. The year when John had appeared in Sherlock's life, she received the first card from her son in years. It was then that she knew that John would be a good influence on her troubled boy. The cards that were missing during his time away still hurt and the anxiety she had felt over those years lingered even now.

The cards had resumed on his return, for a short time with his name alone. But then John's name reappeared and Rosie's too. They returned to hand-drawn ones with garish colours and improving spelling. Each one took pride of place on the mantel each year, her heart swelling with each one. He beautiful boy was finally happy.

Now to get him remembering birthdays...


	23. Dec 23rd - Party

Ever since Greg had started working with the detective, he'd been inviting him to the Yard's Christmas gathering. The self-proclaimed sociopath never actually deigned to turn up but the offer was made anyway. Greg did not expect anything to be different this year. Until it was. 

A record of things that were different:

  1. Sherlock appeared in the doorway, half-dragged by non other than John Watson who had grabbed a hold of the taller man's hand and wouldn't let him escape. 
  2. Sherlock didn't let go of John's hand even once he was fully committed to entering the gathering. In fact, he held it pretty much all night. 
  3. Sherlock Holmes can dance. Quite well actually and he was more than willing to demonstrate with his partner for the evening. Again, it was John.
  4. Sherlock Holmes can drink. He kept up with John every step of the way until both of them were giggling and leaning on each other in a dark corner at the back of the room. 
  5. Sherlock Holmes kisses. As in really kisses. Not chaste pecks. Tongues, groping and moaning.



Greg jumped in surprise when he walked into what he assumed was his empty office. There was John, in his chair, with a lap full of Sherlock. Greg fled, hopefully unnoticed, and smiled. Time to claim the winnings on that bet. 


	24. Dec 24th - Romance

It had started after the incident at Sherrinford. Drinks after work once a week. Text messages. Phone calls. Dinner. He'd assumed it was under some false sense of duty to begin with, a task that had been handed out by someone who had his own issues to deal with instead. But now, he wasn't so sure. Now, he was thinking that he had an actual friend. The first one he had ever had. 

Then the offer of spending Christmas together arrived. "The kids are at their mother's. Fancy coming round and keeping me company." Christmas had always been either spent alone or at his parent's. His brother had taken that particular task this year, a toddler being a very popular accessory to have to Mummy and Daddy. So, he accepted the invitation.

It was nice, relaxing, peaceful. They watched the Queen's speech and she delivered the words he had written perfectly, as always. They drank and ate and he might have even laughed. As the evening progressed, and the empty bottles grew in number, the space between them physically and metaphorically disappeared. 

"I like you. A lot." And he knew what the other man meant by this. 

"The feeling is mutual." 

As their lips joined for the first time, Mycroft Holmes started to believe that sentiment might actually be something beautiful. 


End file.
